


a lesson in vulnerability

by Acacius



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Feelings Realization, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, i love regis' smile & geralt does too, oh & there's a dash of geralt's canon-typical self-loathing whoops, set sometime post baptism of fire so spoiler warning for anyone currently getting thru the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acacius/pseuds/Acacius
Summary: Before he knew it, Geralt had become transfixed by the sight of Regis' teeth.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 248
Collections: Best Geralt





	a lesson in vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> just a short oneshot as i get back into the groove of writing! this was cross-posted & edited from an original tumblr post of mine @riviae, so yeah... hope y'all enjoy :3c

_"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."_

_-Wild Geese, Mary Oliver_

_._

_._

_There it is again,_ Geralt thinks. _That damn smile._ **  
**

It should terrify him—the echoes of _safety_ and _warmth_ that drift into his mind at the sight of familiar, needlepoint teeth. How the reminder of Regis’ inhumanness only softens his gaze, slows his heart rate, relaxes the tension from his muscles. The enormity of emotion he felt whenever the vampire showed his fangs, all laughter and mirth, dark eyes twinkling at him with something akin to adoration. 

_(Not that Geralt knew much about being adored—he knew what hatred looked like, what it meant when someone spat at him, called him a mutated freak with the stench of beer and bile on their breath. But love? The witcher did not know much about love except that it did not suit him; it couldn’t, even if he desperately wanted it to.)_

But nothing about Regis scared him anymore. Never had, really, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Is something the matter, my friend?” Regis asks, smile dissipating slowly like a rolling fog until there is only the suggestion of a grin on his face, lips pulled into a thin line. It is a minuscule shift, but Geralt feels it in the way the vampire curls away, makes a wall out of his bended knees, pressing them close to his chest as he clasped his hands together. 

It was like Regis had closed a door between them. There had been a brief moment where the door had been left ajar, where Geralt had been given a glimpse into the sanctuary of Regis’ mind, a place where his monstrous features simply existed, no expectations or fears pressed upon them. His fangs were just fangs, a natural extension of himself, as benign as the crooked shape of his nose or the onyx color of his eyes. It was Regis allowing himself to be seen for who—and what—he was, no more self-imposed barriers between himself and the world. And then, just as suddenly as the door had been opened, the vampire had slammed it shut. 

_Shit,_ Geralt curses to himself. _How do I keep fucking this up?_ “Sorry. Just got lost in my head.” 

“Hmm… I do wonder what kind of profound thoughts plague the famed witcher Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps something about what our company will be having for dinner?” Regis smiles, but his teeth remained hidden even as he continued to speak, tone light. “I, for one, could most certainly go for soup. Perhaps fish again?” 

The witcher resists the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious teasing. Instead, he offers a small, crooked grin in return. He feels some of the tension slacken in his chest. Maybe he hadn’t scared Regis away—at least not completely. “It shouldn’t be a problem for a higher vampire to catch some fish, right? Something tells me that you’d probably be able to breathe just fine underwater.” 

At his words, Regis’ features twist into a decidedly unpleased expression. “Please, Geralt, you know better than that. I can’t breathe underwater—I’m no siren or mermaid. Rather, you know that I have no physiological need to breathe, except to, of course, talk, sing, or admonish our group whenever they needlessly put their lives at risk.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, vampire. Don’t get your fangs caught in a twist.” 

“That’s rather rich coming from a man who can see clearly in complete darkness.” 

“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black, Regis,” Geralt drawls, fondness creeping into his voice. With only a sliver of moonlight visible through the dark haze of clouds overhead, the silver eye shine that marked Regis as non-human was more apparent than usual. “Huh, I don’t know how I never noticed before, but your eyes really do glow in the dark.” 

The vampire’s face brightened and Geralt immediately knew he was in for an impromptu lecture. “Ah, they actually glow due to the addition of a thin membrane that lies just behind the retina. The _tapetum lucidum_ acts as a light reflector, allowing light to reenter the retina, thereby activating photoreceptors and relaying these external signals to the occipital lobe. This ultimately improves one’s ability to see in low light environments and it is why diurnal species, like humans for example, do not usually have the membrane because they are neither nocturnal nor crepuscular and would not benefit as much. Also, the color an animal’s eye shine differs from species to species, but interestingly, all vampires regardless of classification possess a silver to grey shine.” 

“That’s a long, fancy way of saying that some species evolved specialized membranes to see in the dark so they can hunt better at night.”

“Why yes, I suppose that is a rather fitting summary…” Regis trails, his curious gaze drifting to Geralt’s face. “Do you know that you, as a witcher, have an eye shine as well—a color that can be seen without the aid of a reflective light source?” 

The witcher blinks. “No… are you serious?” 

He hadn’t been too rigorous with his readings when it came to all the ways the trials had mutated his body. By the time he had left Kaer Morhen and its monopoly of scientific artifacts, Geralt had wanted nothing more to do with anything that reminded him of how truly inhuman he was. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious now, his years on the Path softening the trauma of the Trial of Grasses to a degree where he no longer woke up from nightmares where the overwhelming scent of sweat, blood, and tears seemed all too real. The memories still weighed on the edge of his mind, but he had tamed his trauma, allowed time to sate its hungry gaze until it rested docile at his side, as much a part of him as the physical aftereffects of the potions and experiments. 

“Yes. Your eyes glow a rather beautiful gold—quite fitting, given your eye color. It’s likely imperceptible to humans or even witchers, but it may explain why you seem to more readily cause people to keep their distance at night. There’s something about you that seems dangerous beyond your swords and armor, but they’d be unable to say exactly what it was other than, perhaps, that you give off a threatening aura.” 

“And here I thought it was my ugly mug and charming personality that was driving people away.” 

“Geralt,” Regis begins, “While I’m usually quite a fan of your sarcastic wit, you are entirely too harsh on yourself. There’s nothing about you that is ugly—neither in physical features nor personality. I mean it. You are so much more than a man who hunts monsters.” His serious tone brokered no argument. 

The witcher rubs at his neck, purposefully avoiding Regis’ stalwart gaze. What could he say? Self-loathing came as naturally to him as holding a sword. But, it was actually rather pleasant to hear someone speak otherwise. To find merit in him as a person rather than in his capacity as a witcher. 

“Thanks,” he eventually said, letting the dull hum of cicadas fill the night air. A companionable silence passed between them until he heard Regis shift, the scent of herbs growing stronger, and then, suddenly, there was a hand at his shoulder. The vampire squeezed his shoulder gently, his nails only giving the briefest indication of their sharpness as they ghosted over the thin white fabric of his shirt. 

“You’re welcome, Geralt. I’ll always be at your side to remind you of your better nature—of who you really are.”

The witcher did something he had wanted to do ever since he witnessed an arrow pierce through Regis' chest in the midst of the Battle of the Bridge and felt genuine terror at the thought of losing him.

He pulls Regis into a hug, feeling the vampire stiffen for a brief second, his analytical mind likely rattled with surprise at the sudden gesture of affection. Once his bearings return, Regis hugs back with the same sort of gentleness that Geralt could only associate with the barber-surgeon, wisps of grey-black hair tickling the witcher's cheek. He leans into Geralt’s touch easily, a pleased chuckle leaving his lips, his hot breath fanning at the man's neck, eyes fluttering closed in contentment. _Trust,_ Geralt realizes. _Regis trusts me. A vampire trusts a witcher who, at one time, pointed a sword against his throat._ The thought warms his chest in a way that he can’t quite explain, at least not now, not with the weight of Regis resting against him. 

Geralt eventually clears his throat, arms still wrapped around the vampire. “Also… you don’t have to hide your smile, Regis. Not around me. Sorry if I made you think otherwise.” He wanted to say more, to be as open and honest as he should be, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue. Not yet. But he thought them all the same. 

_And because we’re friends, because I care about you, I want to know you—all of you. Not the walls you hide behind. I trust you, Regis. Nothing will change that._

In return, the vampire pulls away and smiles, showing off his sharp, pointed teeth. It made something in Geralt’s slow-beating heart flutter, but the witcher didn’t feel panicked or anxious. Instead, he leaned into the feeling—a feeling that he was not afraid to call _love_.


End file.
